


ABYSSAL

by spideywhiteys



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Peter Parker, Bonding Through Trauma, Bucky is an army vet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Existential Angst, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Jewish Peter Parker, M/M, NO POWERS THIS IS AN AU, Oh ye there’s a shark btw, Peter Parker Has Anxiety, Peter knows nothing about boats and neither do i, Stranded at sea, Survival Horror, and panic attacks and repressed trauma, bucky has ptsd, can’t have ocean horror without one, detailed but mild blood and gore, happy end i swear....i think, he works at the VA, peter has glasses and asthma, slight body horror bc of starvation and injury, the characters are 616 based thank u, the ocean tries to kill them but they’re bi so they can’t die, there’s some OC’s but they die....F in chat, they spill their guts bc they’re delirious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:35:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23152612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideywhiteys/pseuds/spideywhiteys
Summary: Peter Parker is a city boy, born and bred; he’s never even gone camping in his childhood backyard. So when his next journalism assignment leads him to the beach, he’s less than thrilled. He hates the sand, the taste of ocean salt and all the creepy crawlers within the depths, but for the next week he’ll be photographing all of it because money is money, and he’s good at his job. The boat he’ll be spending the next few days on comes with an experienced crew of five, one of which is the friend of a friend— so apparently he’s trustworthy.Bucky Barnes has been doing odd jobs ever since his return from military service. Life isn’t any kinder to veterans than it is to other struggling Americans, so he does what he can to make a living for himself. Five days on the boat, he gets paid, everyone’s happy.Yet when an accident puts them behind schedule, they don’t make it back before a storm hits — and it hits hard. Hard enough that only Peter and Bucky make it onto the life boat, injured and unable to call for rescue. Facing sun exposure, dehydration and infection, it’s easy to forget about their greatest enemy. The ocean. Or rather, what’s in it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Flash Thompson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 43





	1. marmoris

**Author's Note:**

> Hey！！ I’ve had the idea for this fic running around my head for a while now, and i decided i might as well just get it out while i have the motivation for it. UPDATES WILL BE SPORADIC. My main focus is finishing my other fic, Hardy Candy. ABYSSAL is something I’m writing on the side when i need a break from the supernatural stuff. Warning: I literally know nothing about boats, and I made up the reef they’re visiting bc NY didn’t have one far enough away. This is mostly for fun. Enjoy!

_n_. the shining surface of the ocean

* * *

The ocean has never intrigued Peter. Many may find this odd, as he’s the kind of person who loves looking for answers. He fucking  _ thrives _ off knowledge, always has and always will. But that interest has never extended to the ocean, despite it being something like 70% of the planet. No, Peter is captivated by science of the chemical and mechanical sense - and space. Space is amazing. What he wouldn’t give to be an astronaut! He certainly has the IQ for it; could have been the one  _ making _ spaceships if he really wanted. But he’s not, because life bashed in his kneecaps with a baseball bat, throwing one tragedy after another at him with zero remorse. He barely scraped by in college, struggling with money and holding two jobs along with classes and it all just became… too much. 

Luckily, he’s not a half-bad photographer and his very loud moral compass makes him a writer who brings in a lot of controversy, which the News  _ loves. _

Which is why he doesn’t understand how he ended up here, listening to his boss-slash-cousin-by-marriage tell him exactly where his next assignment is. “Really, Jonah? A puff piece about the ocean?” 

“What? I thought you’d be all over this!” The older man exclaims, bushy brows raised, “You’re into that green environment crap! I’m practically giving you a vacation here!” 

“The environment  _ is _ important.” Peter says dryly, “But almost a week on a boat with five dudes I don’t know and only the open ocean for comfort? Is this your way of killing me and making it look like an accident?”

“Please, as if I’d waste the money.” 

Okay, now that sounds like Jonah.

He sighs, “I just don’t see--”

“Listen, Pete, I pay you to  _ write out _ your opinions, not listen to ‘em. Get on the damn boat. Write a piece about pollution in the ocean, plastic straws and poor little sea turtles -- I don’t give a shit!  _ But you’re writing it. _ ”

Peter leaves work with a date and time, a half-crumpled boarding pass in his pocket, and a scowl. Not even Betty’s sympathetic frown and Ben Urich’s tips on preventing seasickness hike up his mood. Him and the ocean just  _ don’t mix. _

Even as a kid, Peter hated going to the beach. Everyone always talked about it like it was some grand oasis (no pun intended), but to Peter it was just dark, dangerous water and sand in places sand should never be. He hated the way it stuck to his skin, hated the grainy texture and how it burned his feet in the already too hot sun. Granted, being on a boat means he won't have to deal with any of that, which is a huge relief. Now it’s just the seasickness and terror of the unknown left. 

The train isn’t as packed as it usually is, which does wonders for his piss poor mood. Peter doesn’t need any old ladies commenting on his pinchable cheeks or old men trying to stick their hands down his pants. (New York, man.)

“Urgh,” he grumbles, running a hand down his face. Getting into scuba gear with the underwater camera sounds awful. This whole thing is awful. He wants to go home and he’s not even on the boat yet.

The temptation to call Ben and have his twin take his place is overwhelming, he even pulls his phone out of his pocket and stares at it with an intensity that likely makes him look insane to anyway watching. But no, he can’t do that to his brother, especially since the man is vacationing in Las Vegas right now. Lucky bastard. 

He almost puts his phone away, but decides instead on sending a text to the group chat he and his close friends had set up.

**STICKYFINGERS:** u will not believe what j is makin me DO

**LEAFYGREENS:** your job?   
**STICKYFINGERS:** fuck u, no. well yes   
**STICKYFINGERS:** he’s making me write about the ocean w a front row seat   
**HOTCHEETOS:** dude ur going on a fuckin CRUISE?   
**LEAFYGREENS:** really?? and you’re complaining about it?

**STICKYFINGERS:** underwater photos, tiny boat. five days w dudes i dont know   
**STICKYFINGERS:** i think j finally found someon t kill me and the ocean is an easy dumpin groudn

**HOTCHEETOS:** that’s fair

**LEAFYGREENS:** that doesn’t sound so bad, peter. for someone who got into a fist fight about protecting nature, you sure hate being in it.

**SOCKLESS:** stop being a lil bitch it’s 5 days   
**STICKYFINGERS:** the support i am receiving is tremendous, thank u all

Contrary to what Harry claimed, Peter did not hate being in nature. Plenty of people are scared of the ocean, that doesn’t mean they all want to let the planet burn. Peter’s participated in more than one fundraiser for cleaning up the ocean, so it’s not like he wants it to dry up or anything. He just… doesn’t want to be in it. Especially in deep, open water. Jesus, he’s seen too many shark movies.

Logically, he knows the odds of anything happening are miniscule. That doesn’t stop the worry. After all, the human race barely knew anything about the ocean.  _ Literally anything could happen _ . His luck is a dumpster fire, no joke. He’s even coined the term “Parker Luck”, as a frequent excuse for the absolute storm of lemon juice Life squirts in his eyes.

The train pulls into his station and he hops off, pocketing his phone without checking if anyone else has texted. The air is balmy, spring edging into summer. Early May has a habit of either being 40 and rainy or near 80 and dry as a desert. Today is somewhere in between, a few clouds in the sky and most civilians wandering around in shorts and t-shirts. Peter himself is wearing a simple pair of dark jeans and a red button-up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The station had been stifling with its shitty air circulation, so finally making it to the street is a relief. 

Ah, New York. It reeks of smog and garbage and a little bit of sweat from too many bodies enjoying the nice weather. Peter feels sticky dampness at the back of his neck and tickling his hairline. It cools quickly in the open air. He shudders to think of how he would have fared had the train been packed like it usually gets in about an hour.

Home is a two bedroom apartment in Queens that he shares with one of his best friends and former bully, Flash Thompson. It’s pretty decent for what they’re paying, though the location is a little lacking. Seeing as the living conditions are acceptable, the view of the building and alley-way dumpsters is fine enough for them. It’s a place to sleep and store food and that’s all they can really ask for. Life for Flash had been pretty difficult for a bit, especially after he’d lost his legs overseas -- double amputation above the knees. He’d saved someone’s life, and Peter doesn’t think the man has ever regretted  _ that, _ but living with the consequences took some… adjusting. Which was fine. 

He’d been the only one to see Flash when the man had returned, the only one to stand with him when he dealt with his piece of shit dad. The next thing Peter knew, they were roommates and Peter was pulling Flash’s head out of the toilet most nights ‘cause the guy kept drinking himself into a stupor. It was shitty and awful and they screamed at each other for months on end until Flash sobered up. Dragging his friend out of depression while the man fought him every step of the way was probably one of the hardest things Peter’s ever done in his life. But he did it, and he’s glad he did. Because now he doesn’t know what he’d do without Flash.

(He knows Flash would probably be dead without  _ him _ .)

Peter unlocks the door, hinges squeaking angrily. They’ll have to get that fixed. When the door is shut and locked behind him, Peter lets out a gusty sigh and kicks off his shoes. They land somewhere off to the side and Peter wastes no time in stripping off his pants. Nobody needs pants. Their apartment isn’t huge, so Peter only has to cross an eight foot wide kitchen-living room combo space to reach the hall holding their bedrooms. Flash’s door is closed, but Peter left his wide open when he’d left for work this morning. Tossing his jeans to the side, he takes off the crimson button-up and slips a light cotton tee on, feeling much cooler already. 

The air conditioning in the apartment isn’t great, which sucks ass in the winter and summer. So,  _ half the year, _ but at least they don’t get rained on. The heat will be unbearable soon, he’ll have to remember to get the fans out from storage, or maybe finally invest in one of those window AC units. It would probably be a hazard, however, with the one window in the living room being their access to the fire escape. Peter’s room is against the same wall, so he has a window as well, but that would hardly be fair to Flash. (Not that Peter isn’t tempted, fairness be damned.)

Just across the hall, the door to Flash’s room opens. The man himself appears at the entrance, freckled face creased with sleep and strawberry-blond hair  _ just _ long enough to be in a state of disarray. He wheels himself into the hall with practiced motions. 

“Five days? Really?”

Peter sniffs, turning his nose up. “Hey, I’m delicate.”

“Delicate in the head, maybe,” Flash mutters, “Couldn’t you be scared of something that  _ doesn’t _ occupy the majority of the planet? Like  _ needles _ , or dolls.”

“Plenty of people…  _ dislike  _ the ocean.” He rolls his eyes. It’s not a fear, not really. He’s hardly been in the ocean enough to gain a phobia or anything. Probably. Nevermind that phobias were illogical in the first place, unless born of something like PTSD. “It’s perfectly normal to not be comforted by something that can kill you six ways t’ sunday.”

“Whatever man, just pack your sunscreen. Your city boy skin is gonna fry.”

“Yes mother.”

Flash flips Peter off, then rolls away towards the kitchen. 

“When are you leavin’?” The blond asks, and Peter follows him after fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

He checks his messages before answering, noting that Johnny had made a snide comment about sunscreen as well. “Uh, end of the week. We ship off Friday morning. Three crew members and two divers. Well, one’s a wild-life photographer, so they’re gonna show me how to handle the underwater camera with all the scuba equipment on.”

Flash halts in his rummaging through their half-empty fridge and throws a look over his shoulder. “Jameson is sending you on a job you don’t even know how to do?”

Peter shrugs, “That’s what I tried to tell him! I don’t think he realizes that photography in a scuba suit with all new equipment while god knows how many feet under the surface isn’t the recipe for greatness. Especially when you’ve never done it before.”

“I mean,  _ probably _ not.” His roommate shrugs, “But you’ll also  _ probably _ get the hang of it quickly, in that odd, annoying way of yours.”

“It’s called being a genius.”

“Like I said,” Flash reiterates, “Annoying.”

* * *

Peter packs like he would if he were going on an actual vacation. Shorts, tee-shirts, sandals. A change of clothes for each day and every hygienic product he’ll need to not reek like a teenage boy. He even packs a swimsuit, though he highly doubts he’ll be having fun splish-splashing around in the water when the bottom of the ocean is leagues below his feet. 

He also packs sunscreen. Teasing aside, Peter really doesn’t go outside as much as the average person. His downtime consists of being tucked away in the dimness of his room, exhausted from work or his friends. Though he’s got a naturally olive skin tone, he’s almost paler than peach-tanned Flash at the moment -- who turns into casper the ghost during the winter, when the sun barely shines. 

The weather is supposed to be nice all weekend, warm and sunny. The perfect time to go take pictures on the open water.  _ Now if only he was looking forward to it. _ Getting hot and sweaty on a boat with very limited space and very few shadowy spaces is going to be absolute hell. 

_ At least I’ll get a good tan out of it, I guess. _ Or at least that’s what Johnny listed as one of the pros. Peter doesn’t particularly care for things like mainstream body aesthetics. Johnny’s just mad he can’t tan -- his pale flesh just burns, then fades into peeling skin. Unsightly enough that the blond slathers himself in sunscreen every time the weather starts heating up.

Peter abhors the clinging dampness that comes with humid heat, and it’s sure to be just that the entire weekend. Poor blood circulation makes it so he gets overheated quickly during the summer and turns into an icicle during the winter.  _ The more he thinks about this trip, the worse his mood gets. _

He folds the rest of his laundry away, nose filled with the scent of fresh linen and coffee beans, a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen. Peter can stand a cup a day, his delicate palate preferring salty and savory over bitter. Flash can drink five cups before Peter finishes his breakfast, and he doesn’t know how the man hasn’t dropped dead from caffeine overdose yet. His roommate is probably sipping at his sixth cup now, and Peter can hear the droning, almost incoherent sounds of the TV. 

Peter presses down on his clothes, grunting softly. It flattens the luggage enough for him to zip up the case, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he does. It’s about an hour before he has to leave and Harry is already on his way over. The man had been adamant about driving Peter to the docks himself. Flash is leaving for work in the next half hour, so it’ll just be them two, though the blond had expressed his discontent over this the night before. It’d been too short-notice for him to get the day off.

“Don’t die.” The vet says when he wheels himself out the front door twenty minutes later. Peter scowls at Flash from just outside his room, in the middle of dragging out his luggage. 

“Thanks for that vote of confidence.” He mutters, even though the man can no longer hear him. It’s not like he hasn’t already been dreaming about dying at sea for the past three days. Shaking his head, Peter putters into the kitchen, rummaging around the cabinets. He’s bringing a carry-on bag of food on top of his suitcase, as he still isn’t so sure about the kind of grub they’ll be having on a boat. He sincerely hopes he won’t be expected to  _ catch _ his own food. He’ll die. There’s too much city in him! He screams when he sees bugs! Flash is the designated man of the house, armed with a fly-swatter and military reflexes. Peter struggles with his balance and has limited hand-eye coordination. He’s here to look pretty, not last long.

He tosses saltines, a full box of granola bars, a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter that’s still more than half full into the carry-on bag. It’s not a lot, but he’s survived on less in college over longer periods of time and he truly doubts there won’t be  _ any _ food provided for the trip. To think otherwise is just paranoia talking. 

Then again, is it paranoia if it’s Jonah?

Peter shudders.

He zips up his bag just as there’s a knock at the door. Settling it atop his suitcase, he makes his way to the door and peers out the peephole. It’s Harry, as expected. The door is tugged open without preamble. 

“Excited?” His friend asks, tugging Peter into a quick hug. He smells like expensive cologne and lemons. Peter pulls away after an obligatory pat on the back.

“Ecstatic.” He replies dryly, “If I die, I’m leaving all my things to my sister.”

“What on earth would she do with your TMNT VHS set?” Harry laughs. He’s dressed down today, in a casual gray t-shirt and khaki slacks. There’s a smidge of paint just by the collar of the shirt— it’s probably one he’s used while spending time with his kids.

Peter pushes his lips together, “I guess you can have those. But only if you use them to sway your two little monsters to the side of  _ classics _ .”

“Scout’s honor.” Harry makes an X over his chest. “Now c’mon, there’s a bit of traffic.”

* * *

It takes almost three hours to get to the port Peter and the five mystery men will be departing from. Part of it’s the traffic, and Peter’s glad that it’ll be less of a trek for Harry on the way back. It’s 11am and Peter is exhausted already. He’s really not a morning person, having to get up at 5am today was the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

“This is it, then.” Harry sighs, putting the car into park just across the street from the docks. He throws Peter a soft smile, hazel eyes bright against his dark skin. 

Peter shrugs the duffle bag of food over his shoulder, having rode with it at his feet. “Guess so, Papa Bear.”

Harry huffs and rolls his eyes, “Just promise me you’ll be careful. And that you brought your inhaler.”

“Aren’t I always?” Peter smirks, sharp and meaningless. “And relax, it’s in my bag.”

His friend doesn’t deign that with a response. “Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday night.” Peter confirms. “5 on the dot, don’t leave me hanging! I’m sure I’ll be sick of the ocean by then.”

“Of course. We’ll even have tacos to celebrate your return.”

“Must you tempt me so? God, I can’t wait.”

They bid each other one final goodbye, and then Peter pulls his suitcase from the back and rolls it away while sending a wave back to Harry, who watches until Peter has his feet on the dock before driving off. The wood creaks under his weight and the sound of water gently lapping at the edge of the port fills his ears. It smells like fish guts and salt. The dock is much larger than Peter first assumed, there’s parts where it branches off to create little lanes for the various boats ‘parked’. Is that the word for it? Moored? Docked? Whatever, he’s not a sailor. He doesn’t need boating knowledge to take photos and notes. Does he?

A few people are milling about on their boats, tying knots and doing some general boaty things that Peter doesn’t pretend to understand. From between the cracks in the wood planks, Peter can see the dark of the ocean below. Jonah wasn’t wrong, it does irk Peter to see it so polluted, but did he have to get up close and personal? There were probably plenty of other journalists with experience in underwater photography, why couldn’t his stupid boss-cousin tell one of  _ them _ to go?

This must be payback for the Christmas gift prank. Some people just can’t take a joke.

The ship he’s looking for is called  _ The Hydrus _ , and she’s apparently big enough to comfortably hold six people plus all their shit, so. It still doesn’t tell Peter much, it’s not like he knows what that means in boat language.

Ah. Well, turns out it's a pretty decent sized boat. Near the last part of the dock is a ship with  _ The Hydrus _ painted across in blocky red letters, a gray star next to it. Definitely not a cruise ship, but pretty lengthy, with what looks like a flat space at the back for diving. Peter literally knows nothing about boats, it’s becoming very distressing.

“You the news guy?”

Peter squints against the sun, looking in the direction the voice had come from. When his eyes adjust, he’s gifted with the image of a man who looks like he poses for GQ as a side gig. The man is even back-lit by the sun, the very picture of angelic grace. It’s almost enough to make Peter believe in God, and he’s a non-practicing Jew. 

“I am, uh, news guy. Parker.” He fumbles over his words, “Peter of News.” Never mind, God wasn’t real, or he hates Peter and refuses to let him be  _ Eloquent.  _ Even though he’s supposed to be a highly accomplished writer. 

Dejected, he finally gets out, “Peter Parker. Sorry.”

GQ Model just grins, it’s not wide or particularly bright, but it’s there, like he’s seen something mildly amusing. (That would be Peter, professional train wreck.) “Bucky Barnes. I’ll be working the ship while you’re here.”

Peter reaches out and shakes the hand that’s offered, marveling at how strong the guy’s arm is, at how his hair is long enough to be tied into a messy bun, loose strands almost artfully placed around his face and against his neck.  _ Who built you, a fucking machine? _

Then he pauses, “Wait, Bucky Barnes? Like, James B. Barnes?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Dude, no way! My best friend mentioned you! Offhand, mind you, because anything else would be a total invasion of privacy, but he said you were super helpful at the VA.” Peter exclaims, worldview shifting just slightly. Suddenly he’s far more comfortable, having a face to a name that Flash has brought up more than once.  _ And what a face it is. _

“Who—”

“Oh, uh, Flash Thompson. Sorry.” Peter rubs the bridge of his nose sheepishly, bumping his glasses. “Or,  _ Eugene _ , but I doubt he uses that name at the VA, even if it’s on all his awards and shit.”

Bucky’s countenance immediately brightens in understanding and recognition. “Oh,” he murmurs, red lips tugging in a grin that seems a little more genuine. “Then you’re the roommate. You’re  _ that _ Peter.”

“Should I be worried about the connotations of being  _ that _ Peter?” 

“Not at all,” The man grins, “Just heard a lot about you.”

Peter’s face scrunches into something distasteful, “Oh no.”

This actually gets a chuckle out of Bucky, and Peter thinks that even if he’d been straight that would have sent butterflies through his system. “Nothing bad, I promise. I’ve just heard that you’ve helped a great deal.” The man pauses for a precarious moment, “...and that you scream like a girl when you see spiders.”

Peter gasps in mock outrage, “That was  _ private!  _ There are some things only close friends and lovers are supposed to know.”

“What, that you’re scared of bugs?” Bucky muses, holding out a hand to take Peter’s suitcase.

“No,” Peter hums, smiling a little too wickedly as he lifts it up enough so the man can grasp the handle. “That I’m a  _ screamer. _ ”

Barking out a surprised laugh, Bucky hefts Peter’s luggage up with a single motion, the muscles of his arm flexing. Peter tries not to stare in an obvious manner. He’s almost jealous, because while he doesn’t really put on weight, that includes  _ muscle _ . Maybe if he worked for it. But…. it’s not like he has time to go to the gym, between work and the depression he pretends he doesn’t have.

After he’s done being a gentleman, Bucky goes the extra mile and holds out a hand for Peter to take. Which he does, hoping his palm isn’t outrageously sweaty or that his nails aren’t gross and obviously bitten. Bucky keeps a firm grasp on Peter as he helps the photojournalist over the gap between the deck and boat, humor in the lines of his face as he doesn’t move back when Peter is across, forcing them into close quarters. 

“Lucky for us, there’s plenty of time to get friendly.”

Peter tries not to die on the spot, suddenly very thankful for his tanner complexion and how the flush burning across his cheeks isn’t super obvious. Not that it’s particularly helpful with how close they’re standing. “That’s very forward of you, Mr. Barnes. I approve.”

Bucky finally takes a step back and Peter feels like he can breathe again. He feels a little lightheaded and wonders if this is why people like to get choked during sex. (Not that he’s tempted to try it, thank you very much.)

“Call me Bucky, seriously.”

“Then please, if you call me Mr. Parker I’ll leave crumbs on whatever surface you dare call a bed on this ship.”

Blue eyes flash, and this time Peter sees a hint of white teeth when Bucky’s mouth parts into another subtle grin. “Alright, Pete. Wouldn’t want that.”

_ Oh man, I want it. Please don’t be drooling, please don’t be drooling.  _

“So,” he clears his throat. “Are you the… Captain?”

“No way,” Bucky shakes his head, then gestures with an aborted hand movement towards the bulk of the ship, where there’s two doors in the protruding, house-like shape in the middle of the deck. God, boat knowledge. Should have done research. “He’s in the cabin, at the helm. Fiddling with the radio to make sure we’re all set. There’s another guy in there too, and the two divers are already below.”

“In the water?” Peter exclaims, glancing at the depths surrounding them. 

“Nah, I mean down in the hull, where we’ll be sleeping.” Bucky makes his way across the deck, still wheeling Peter’s big suitcase. He follows, almost stumbling as he adjusts to the subtle rocking of the ship.

“Are we still waiting for one more person?”

“Yeah,” Bucky pushes the door on the left open, it reveals a short staircase leading down. “Not sure if he’s coming, though. Heard the Captain on the phone a few minutes ago, sounds like the guy’s kid got sick.”

“Ah,” Peter makes a vaguely sympathetic face instinctively, thinking about his two ‘nephews’, Harry’s boys. No matter how cute, children were, quite frankly, disgusting, messy little devils. “Will that be a problem?”

Bucky shrugs as they head down the stairs, “Not really, the extra hand is helpful but between the three of us it should be fine, and the divers know a bit about boats. Isn’t that right?”

“Sure is!” A bubbly voice replies.

Peter drops off the last step and sees that the hull is actually more spacious than he anticipated, a bit like a trailer but certainly not cramped. There are cupboards at either side of him, but enough space to walk through without his shoulders touching them. A little door is to the right when he gets past that, which is open a crack to reveal what must be a bathroom. (Thank god they don’t have to shit in the ocean.) Opposite that door is a little kitchen area, and then beyond that is what looks like bunk beds. That area is a little wider, and there’s another door at the end of that. 

A blonde woman smiles brightly at him from the top bunk of the first set of beds. She’s wearing a tank top and rolled up shorts, her legs swinging off the bed. There’s a man on the bunk below her with light brown skin, dark cropped hair and a scar across his cheekbone, barely visible. He’s dressed in much the same manner as the woman.

“Hey there, pretty boy!” The woman exclaims, hopping off the bed. Peter winces when she hits the ground, but she doesn’t look phased in the slightest. His ankles would have buckled had he done that. “I’m Edith! I’m one of the divers this big ol’ hunk of man was talkin’ about!”

She’s got an accent that places her somewhere in the midwest, a little gap between her two front teeth and a splattering of freckles across her cheeks that suits the childish look in her green eyes. Peter offers a grin in return, wondering if perhaps this is some kind of gift from Jonah, rather than a punishment. He’s literally surrounded by pretty people. 

No, wait. This  _ is _ a punishment, because Peter is a bumbling fool with a penchant for putting his foot in his mouth and talking so much it drives people away.

“Peter,” he manages to say without making a fool out of himself. He shakes the hand she offers, hers noticeably smaller and softer than Bucky’s. Which is an odd thing to think about right now; abort, abort! “Thanks for helping me out with this.”

“It’s no problem! We love this stuff!” Edith says, hand on hips. She turns slightly to the side to glance at the man, who offers a small wave to Peter. “That’s Joey, he doesn’t talk much. Do you know ASL?”

Peter blinks, “Uh, no, not really.” He remembers learning the alphabet in like, third grade. But all that information is lost to time. “I just know that  _ Thank You _ and  _ Fuck You _ are very commonly mixed up by learners.”

She laughs brightly and makes a few hand signs for Joey, who cracks a smile as well. “Leave it to me then, pretty boy. I gotchu covered.”

* * *

Within a few hours, they’re at sea. The docks a distant speck — until Peter thinks he’s imagining he can still see them. The thrum of the motor isn’t as grating as he’d anticipated, and they cut through the water at a steady pace. This boat is too large to go zooming around like he’s seen those smaller, two person ships do. It smells a lot better out here, away from the docks. He’s not sure why, as there hadn’t been trash visible in the water, but the scent of sewage is gone. Now it’s mostly salt and open air, and little bit of what the ocean tastes like — but in smell form. It’s not… bad. 

The Captain is an older gentleman with a long, white beard, who looks every bit the stereotypical fishing boat captain you see in the movies. He supposes Hollywood gets  _ some _ things right. Captain Will is his name, and the other.. deckhand? Whatever. The other dude is Hank, who’s tall and lanky with dark skin and dreads tied into a long pony-tail. Peter doesn’t know how Bucky and Hank live with so much hair pressed against the backs of their necks. He gets sweaty enough there  _ without _ long hair!

“We’ll be sailing until sunset, then anchoring for the night.” Captain Will explains, “In the morning you’ll begin whatever you came here for.”

Apparently when Jonah said  _ open ocean _ , he really meant  _ open ocean. _ They’re gonna end up pretty far out in the water by the time sunset hits, though it’s apparently likely they’ll reach their goal before then — a sandbar some hundred miles off shore.

A hundred miles seems like a  _ very  _ far distance in the ocean, but according to Captain Will, a boat this size can go almost 30 miles an hour, so it’ll take only a few short hours. Reassuring, if not for the fact that they are still a hundred miles from land in the event that something goes catastrophically wrong. At least the view is pretty. The waves cresting behind them are the only break in a sparkling, blinding sheen of light across the ocean. It’s painful to look at head on, his eyes squinting so heavily they might as well be closed. The heat steadily climbs as the hours pass, his t-shirt sticking to the sweat-damp flesh of his back and chest uncomfortably. 

Bucky, Peter finds, is not much of a talker. He seems pretty content to sit back and let the conversation flow around him, only responding if he’s genuinely curious or a question is directed at him. Edith, on the other hand, has a mouth that surpasses even  _ Peter’s _ . It almost reminds him of his friend Wade, except far less annoying — and less sexual. (Peter’s dirty mouth is  _ nothing _ in comparison to that man.)

“Ugh, it’s so hot…” Peter complains under his breath for what feels like the fourth time in the span of five minutes. He tugs his shirt away from his chest, squirming at the feeling. It’s only been a few hours and he’s already overheating, his glasses have even fogged up. Wiping them on his shirt is almost pointless with how damp it is. 

“You betcha!” Edith says, somehow looking like she’s not affected by it at all. “You’re a real city boy, huh?”

“Obvious, isn’t it?”

She nods, “For sure. Now c’mon, lemme show you the diving equipment so I don’t have to explain it all tomorrow.”

“Ohh,” he follows after her diligently, “Can I take a look at the camera I’ll be using?”

There’s not much difference in appearance between a regular and underwater camera, so logically he knows it’ll look almost exactly like the one he uses daily. It’s the fact that he can put this one in the water without  _ crying _ that’s the life-changing part. Water damage is his worst nightmare. 

“Sure,” Edith shrugs, “They’re not ours. They’re property of the Bugle, a guy dropped off all the equipment before you showed up.”

Peter has a hard time believing that Jonah would splurge on underwater equipment, but apparently pigs do fly. “Then I should be fine with that part, it’s just the swimming and not panicking underwater bit that I need to worry about.”

“Don’t worry so much! Diving isn’t as scary as you think, pretty boy.” Edith leads him to the back of the boat, where some air tanks, black duffel bags and vests sit. “Did you bring a wetsuit?”

“A what.”  _ Oh no, oh no…. say it ain’t so. _

Edith furrows her brow, “A wetsuit? Did your boss not tell you?”

“No,” Peter says, sweet as artificial funfetti frosting, murder on his mind, “He did not, in fact.”

“Huh.” She purses her lips before smiling brightly, “No matter! You got a bathing suit, at least?”

“Swim trunks.” He confirms. For a man with an IQ rivaling the greatest minds in existence, he sure can be an idiot. How could he forget that he’d be  _ diving, _ and therefore need a  _ wetsuit?  _ He’d literally brought the swim trunks thinking they’d be for if  _ he felt like swimming _ . That’s it. When this job is over he’s asking Jonah for an  _ actual _ paid vacation, and he’s getting it.

“That’ll do! It’s not really a problem if you don’t have a wet suit, so don’t worry about it too much.” Edith begins to take items out of one of the duffel bags, “So! Let’s learn about  _ diving. _ ”

* * *

Peter is breaking a lot of rules. He isn’t a certified diver, isn’t knowledgeable about the ocean, and is the least athletic person he knows. Hence, he’s just supposed to sit in the water, by the sandbar where his feet would be able to touch ground, and take pictures of the surrounding reef. The scuba equipment is so he can get good shots underwater without needing to go up for air every two seconds. There’s also going to be two professionals with him. So. It’s simple. As long as he doesn’t think about it too hard. 

Dinner is hot dogs, because yes, boats can have grills. Totally. Peter’s just glad there  _ is _ food, even if they don’t compare to the franks he gets in the city. The sun dips below the water and the temperature begins to drop. If he thought the ocean was terrifying before, it’s a whole new horror show at night, when the water is dark as ink and the choppy slap of water against the boat makes it sound like they’re being boarded by man-eating sea creatures. It’s also kind of beautiful — both during the sunset, when the water is alight with fire and everything looks like a vintage 90’s Polaroid, and when the moon spills across a rippling surface. 

Still scary, though. 

“You alright?” Bucky asks, hovering just an inch away from Peter. In the sudden chill of night, heat practically radiates from his body. Peter is  _ this close _ to stepping closer, having not packed a single jacket in preparation like the idiot he is.

“Fine,” Peter replies, pretending that his teeth aren’t chattering.

Bucky is quiet for a moment, faint disbelief lining the barely-there downturn of his stupidly red mouth.

“I’m serious.” Peter insists.

Blue eyes flicker in the glare of the moon, “Uh huh.”

In the morning, though each bunk bed is equipped with a single thin sheet for a blanket, Peter wakes up swaddled in two.


	2. mazarine

_n._ a deep, rich blue

* * *

He peers over the edge of the boat, sun baking the bare flesh of his back. The water is the deepest, darkest blue he’s ever laid eyes on. Even when the water is calm, it’s not motionless, gently rocking the boat. While he’d been worried about getting seasick, he’s glad to know it hasn’t hit him yet, if it ever will. If he had to deal with four days of nausea he might actually drown himself. 

“You ready to get in?” A chipper voice pulls him from his existential crisis. He glances back at Edith, who stands just a few feet away with a wide smile and her scuba gear on. 

“As I’ll ever be.” He mutters, then sets down by the edge to get his own gear on. She still ends up helping him. 

Though on one side of the boat, the ocean looks deep and dark and dangerous, on the other side — the side they’ll actually be swimming around in — the water, while tinted green, is shallow enough that Peter can see the bottom. The sandbar is a little odd to see in the middle of the ocean, not quite an island but still the only ‘land’ visible for miles. There’s a few dark spots scattered around, along with hunks of coral. On the other side of the sandbar it apparently trails off into one of New York’s man-made reefs. 

Clad in his scarlet, spider-web patterned swim trunks, very heavy black straps and tanks against the bare skin of his back, Peter slips into the water after Edith and Joey. Immediately, he wants to get out. There’s something about the unknown variables of the ocean that brings genuine terror to his soul.

He tries really, really hard not to let it show.

“Here,” Bucky leans over the edge of the boat, holding out the underwater camera. Peter takes it from him gratefully.

“Thanks,” he says, the words a little muffled by the mask on his face.

He takes a deep breath.

He goes under.

The flippers take some getting used to, they feel clunky and awkward on his feet and swimming with a camera in his hand is difficult when you’re already not a great swimmer. But the view? Wild. Even with the goggles digging into the bridge of his nose—he’s got his contacts in, because trying to wear glasses under these? Not happening. It’s beautiful, in an otherworldly way. There’s waves in the sand, highlighted and shadowed by the kaleidoscope of sunlight streaming down from the surface. 

_ Teresa would love this. _ He thinks,  _ She’s always been into that ‘surf’s up’ aesthetic. _ When she was in middle school, she’d had a huge turtle poster on her bedroom door, and Finding Nemo bed sheets until she was fifteen. Which he wasn’t allowed to make fun of, because she knew full well he  _ still  _ had Star Trek sheets. (They were in the wash right now. Hopefully Flash would actually remember to do the laundry.) And nothing she ever said about his Lord of the Rings obsession could  _ ever _ be embarrassing because LOTR was  _ cool. _ And yes, he will die by that.

The comms in his ears crackle to life. “How ya doing, pretty boy?” Edith asks.

“Haven’t drowned yet,” He replies, “Give it a minute.”

She laughs a little, the sound jumbled with static. “Please try not to, that’s too much paperwork.”

“For you? I suppose.” He sees both her and Joey swimming just ahead, keeping him in their sights. They must really enjoy diving if they’re willing to come all the way out here to watch his ass for four to five days. 

He snaps a few nice shots of the sandbar, a collection of rocks, the surface from underneath — his favorite is the watery pattern of light across the seabed. As he makes his way across the sandbar, he’s treated with the view of the reef. It’s not particularly pretty in the traditional sense, but it’s unique in a very alien way. Since it’s man-made there aren’t heaping mounds of flashily colored coral and aquatic plants, it’s far too cold up here for that kind of tropical flora. It’s structures of half-sunken ships, domes of wood and metal — all overgrown with algae, seaweed, sea moss and other similarly colored plants. There are, however, a few bright points of coral around, and the whole place is teeming with fish. 

The light cutting through the water casts the warped shapes into something both majestic and terrifying, as if these structures have been here for centuries. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d say it looks like remnants of a forgotten age. Ethereal. Perfect for photography. Peter was given free range on what exactly to write about, and he’d thought it best to check out the place before deciding—but now he’s got an idea. The way this place looks...he could definitely spin a story on the pros and cons of man-made reefs, and the importance of stimulating and protecting ocean life.

He purses his lips.  _ Maybe Jonah knows me better than I realize. Or like. _

He spends another two or so hours exploring the reef and snapping photos, testing his flimsy patience by staying extremely still to catch close-ups of skittish fish. He likes the ones he gets where the lighting pierces through the surface the most, glittering off metal and fish scales. 

“There aren’t any sharks around here, are there?”

“Oh, definitely,” Edith confirms, chipper as ever. “Shouldn’t be any aggressive breeds though, and we’re not actually on their menu as much as the media likes to make it seem!”

“Awesome,” Peter says, finding it decidedly  _ not _ awesome. 

They return to the boat in the afternoon, and by then Peter is running on fumes, his stamina not very impressive to begin with. He’s also starving, and has never been so grateful to see Bucky, Hank and Captain Will standing on deck with food. 

“Freedom at last!” Peter crows as he takes off the last of his gear. All the straps had started to chafe his bare skin, leaving red marks along his chest and back. They’re superficial though, should be gone by tomorrow. 

He swallows down an entire peanut butter and jelly sandwich before he even remembers how to hold a conversation again. When he licks his lips he tastes salt.

“Someone’s hungry.” Hank comments, a smirk at his mouth. He hands Peter a bottle of water and another sandwich. Peter takes both gratefully.

“Yeah, who knew exercise was so draining.” He drawls, very aware of how unathletic he is. With so much of his skin bared for their eyes, they can probably tell, too. Peter never really grew out of his skinny phase. Johnny calls him a twink, but Peter thinks he looks more like a stick figure than anything.  _ At least I’m a passably pretty stick figure. _

His comment earns a few chuckles, the rest of the group filled with unfairly built, gleaming muscle types. At least his sarcasm is appreciated, he doesn’t know what he’d do if they were all meatheads.  _ Like in High School. God, Bowling For Soup was WRONG and I’ve never been happier. _

Underneath the warm afternoon sun he dries quickly, water evaporating off his skin and leaving traces of salt. He definitely smells like fish guts. 

Joey makes a few gestures, and Edith translates them: “Did you get anything good?”

“Definitely.” Peter says, picking up the camera once more, he clicks through the digital stills. “A few keepers for sure, but I’ll need to see them blown up on a screen first. Then comes editing. We’re lucky the reef is closer to the surface, the natural light looks a lot better than flashlights.”

Edith looks over his shoulder, “Oh wow! Some of these are really good!” 

Peter grins bashfully, “Thanks...I’m actually looking forward to getting a bunch more.” He doesn’t mention the overwhelming fear of sharks he’s suddenly acquired after being told they swim these waters.

They eat a little more, and the camera gets passed around. Peter’s a little embarrassed, not because they’re bad—but because he knows a lot of the photos could look so much better being seen full size with a few  _ curves _ adjustments. It’s like letting someone get a sneak peek at an unfinished project that you  _ know _ will be a hundred times better when it’s done, and you don’t want people to think that what they’re seeing now is the final culmination of your skill. Because it isn’t, really. Peter’s been doing this for a long time. Got his own Adobe account and everything!

“So you really  _ are _ a professional.” Bucky comments quietly, tone light and eyes flashing in the sun. The camera rests carefully in his hands. It takes Peter a minute to realize the man is teasing him.

“No, I killed Peter Parker and stole his place. I really have no idea what I’m doing, but the free food is nice.” He takes a swig of his water and shoots the man a grin. 

Bucky huffs, the corners of his mouth tilting up. “Seriously, these aren’t half bad. How long have you been doin’ this kinda thing?”

Peter wipes a line of sweat from his brow. “What, Flash didn’t give you the rundown?” 

“We didn’t spend all our time gossiping about you, no.” Bucky replies.

“Since high school. Used to take photos for school clubs, then I did some freelance. Even had a stint with the police for a bit. People never realize just how many applications there are for photography.” He doesn’t mention that he’d picked it up as a hobby only because it helped pay the bills. The money struggles his family went through are personal, and not really first date conversation material.  _ Not that this is a date, Romeo. _

“So you always wanted to do this?” Bucky hands the camera back, and Peter slides it into the bag of equipment at his feet, making sure it’s turned off. 

“No, actually.” He replies, surprisingly truthful. “I actually wanted to go to school for biochem. But...I guess life got in the way. Ya know how it is.”

Bucky considers him for a moment. “Yeah,” he says, “I think I do.”

“What about you, did ya always want to be a...boat guy?”

The other man crosses his arms and shifts to lean against the side of the boat, not even a foot away from Peter. “No. Went into the military right outta high school. Had ‘em pay my way through college, but I never really settled on somethin’ I liked.” The more the man talks, the more Peter can hear a Brooklyn accent bleed through. “Ended up with a bachelor’s in Accounting ‘n I never did a thing with it. Manual labor jobs aren’t too bad. Someone’s gotta do ‘em.”

“How long were you in the Army?” Peter asks, because he’s a curious bitch.

“Marines, actually.” Bucky says, and his eyes are a shade of steel blue so bright it hurts to look at.  _ Why is Peter being so gay. _ “I served for twelve years.”

“Oooo,” Peter hums, damp curls shaking with every tilt of his head. “What’s your rank?”

“Sergeant.”

Peter presses salt-soaked fingertips to his mouth, “Oh, Sergeant Barnes,” he drawls in a decidedly  _ coy  _ manner, “There’s nothing fair about how well that rolls off the tongue.”

Bucky hides a smirk behind his water bottle and doesn’t say a word.

* * *

Peter waits a bit after lunch before getting in the water, resting his weak, tired body from the earlier strain. He takes a puff from his inhaler before diving in, camera in hand and the intent to explore a different part of the reef. His swimming skills still leave much to be desired, and he’s almost clumsier than earlier. The flippers on his feet kick sluggishly through the water, sometimes kicking up pockets of sand. It’s a lot more waiting around and moving very, very slowly, and he’s feeling the last threads of his patience snap by the time the sun hangs heavy in the sky, dipping against the horizon line. 

Photography is a passion of his, but he’s not used to the monotonous  _ stillness _ . He’s never actually taken a lot of nature pictures, preferring action shots and exciting angles. 

When he gets out of the water for the day, he’s relieved. He feels excessively waterlogged and exhausted — the sight of the rickety bunk bed is a godsend, and after stuffing his face with dinner, he passes out. 

Sunday passes much the same, the sun getting increasingly hotter and his skin feeling like an old prune with how long he spends in the water. There’s no air conditioning, so hiding from the sun’s rays down in the hull is almost worse than sitting out on deck, the whole room just boils. Peter already has asthma, he doesn’t need the pressing heat of an oven to breathe through. At least on deck there’s a breeze, and by the time Sunday night arrives Peter is feeling slightly less exhausted than the previous day and manages to take a shower. The water is heavily filtered, but better than straight bathing in the ocean. 

He’s not super happy about being wet again, but it feels so much better when the salt and brine of the sea is scrubbed from his skin. When he gets out, he towels off and decides to let his hair air dry as usual, gently squeezing the excessive water from his curls. The bathroom smells like sandalwood and pine trees — a new body wash Harry had gotten him after forcefully throwing away all of Peter’s Axe products. 

The night is still significantly cooler, so he exits the bathroom in a plain tee and cotton shorts. Bucky, rather unfairly, sleeps without a shirt, which must be part of some secret plan to kill Peter. 

“Sucks there’s no wifi,” he comments, throwing his towel over the bunk bed rail to dry. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so removed from the world.”

Edith snorts out a laugh, smacking his side with her pillow. “You are the living embodiment of a spoiled city kid!”

“It’s been almost three days!” He exclaims, slumping down onto the sweet expanse of his own tiny bunk bed. “I am a man of simple pleasures, and those pleasures include internet and phone service.”

“Only a day and a half left.” Bucky comments from above. Peter rolls over and stares at the underside of the top bunk, where the vet rests. 

Bucky’s right, there’s only a full day of work on Monday, and then a bit on Tuesday before they return to port by that evening.  _ 5pm, Tuesday, _ Peter had told Harry.  _ Tacos. _

“I’m going through withdrawals!” Peter throws an arm over his eyes dramatically. “Look at me! I’m going stir crazy!”

“”Joey says you were probably crazy to begin with.” Edith comments, and Peter moves his arm to squint at the two of them. 

“We’ve definitely been spending too much time together.” he huffs, “You know me too well already.”

“Poor baby,” Edith hums, “How on earth will you last just  _ two more days? _ ” 

“I had to last months.” Bucky murmurs, and Peter can’t see the man’s face but it almost sounds like he’s smiling. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. “Suck it up.”

Peter gasps, “Months? Good Christ, that’s unthinkable! Horrendous. Simply tragic! As if I wasn’t already completely aware that I’m not Marine material. I’m a hundred percent certain my own squad would murder me.”

“Your asthma alone makes you unrecruitable.” Bucky comments.

“Your words are so kind.”

“And the complete lack of stamina.” The other man continues.

“That was not an invitation to pick at my weak spots.” Peter replies, “And I have stamina where it counts, Sergeant.”

“Joey and I can cover our ears if you wanna keep flirting.” Edith says, brows raised and a teasing smile lighting up her face. She has an expression on her face that reminds Peter of his sister. He immediately groans and turns over, burying his face in his pillow.

“Maybe tomorrow,” he says, words muffled, “Brain too tired for sexy talk.”

He thinks he hears Bucky join in on the resulting laughter.

* * *

“How are those photos of yours comin’, Mr. Parker.” 

Peter swallows down his recent bite of hot dog, tongue catching a spot of ketchup clinging to his lip. He clears his throat before answering Captain Will, who’s squinting against the harsh rays of the noon sun. “Pretty good. Not sure how much there is left to photograph, if I’m bein’ honest. The place is amazing, though.”

“That it is,” The Captain agrees, “I just wanted to make sure you’re in a good place. You see, there’s a storm comin’ this way. Just got word of it. Quite recent; it wouldn’t hit ‘til nightfall if it even lasts that long. I was thinkin’ it might be best if we pack it in early and head t’ shore.”

Peter glances out over his shoulder, eyeing the never-ending expanse of ocean. The sun still shines bright and heavy in the cloudless sky, and there doesn’t seem to be any looming threat of a nearby storm. But he’s not a meteorologist, and it’s better safe than sorry.

“Sounds good. I’ve got no problem with headin’ in a little early.” Getting stuck out in a storm was not his idea of fun. The exact opposite, in fact. Nightmare fuel.

They finish lunch with no looming sense of worry. Why would they? They’ll be back to shore long before any storm hits. Bucky and Hank start setting up to leave, and Peter helps carry in the scuba equipment and other loose items below deck. While down there, he takes the time to pack his snacks back into his duffel bag. 

“I’m disappointed we didn’t get to see a shark.” Edith sighs gustily behind him, shoving her suitcase back under her bunk. 

“I’m not,” he huffs, “Say what you want about them being ‘just big fish’, I don’t want one anywhere near me and my fragile, fleshy body.”

“As if they’d go for you,” she laughs, a sharp elbow nudging Peter’s side, “You’re just skin and bones, not even worth the effort.”

“Excuse you, I’m a  _ snack.  _ Any shark would be lucky to have me!”

“Nah, they got taste.” 

A loud pop and loud voices from above deck halt their banter, and both of them only pause for a moment to look at each other before making their way up.

“What was that?” Edith exclaims, the first up the stairs.

“Damn engine,” Hank sighs, aggravation in the line of his broad shoulders. “Dunno what happened.” He tries once more to get the motor running, and this time it sticks. 

“Ah, there we go!” Captain Will laughs from the helm, “This ol’ boat still has life in ‘er!”

Peter furrows his brow but smiles, eyeing the motor with slight unease.  _ Oh well, as long as it works enough to get them back to the docks. _

“Sad to head back in?” Edith translates for Joey. In the few days they’ve been in close quarters, Peter has actually picked up on a few signs. Definitely not enough to understand sentences. But.  _ Genius, remember? _ Give him a few more days...maybe he’ll pick it up in a few weeks, just on his own. Seems like a pretty cool language to learn. Helpful, too.

Peter shrugs, “Maybe. I’m kinda excited to get off the boat and back on land, but it really was beautiful out here.”

“And you’ll totally miss us.” Edith chimes, slugging Peter’s arm. 

He grips it instinctively, “Ow. Well I won’t anymore.”

She lunges back in for another weak punch and he hops to the side, letting out a cross between a yelp and a laugh. “Mercy! Mutiny!”

“You ain’t the Captain!” she laughs, chasing him half-heartedly around the small deck.

“Children.” Hank mutters, rolling his eyes. The smile at his mouth tells Peter he doesn’t really mean it. 

With the sun high in the sky and bearing down on them unrelentlessly, they pull the anchor up from the depth of the sea and start their journey back. There’s less of a rush for the return trip, so they don’t go as fast as they had when they came out. It’s probably for the best, if the engine is being finicky. Peter’s pretty handy with machines, but he’s never fixed an engine before and the time it would take for him to pick it apart and figure out how it all worked without a manual is not something they can afford to do. 

His specialty has always lied with the sciences of biological and chemical nature anyway. Geez, sometimes he really does wish he went to college. He’s lucky enough to have a steady, decently paying job with no degree. A large part may be due to the fact that he’s been working with Jonah since he was fifteen, and the man has a soft spot for him. (Not that he’d ever admit it, and the very thought is vaguely terrifying.) 

Peter leans against the side of the ship, the wind whipping his already messy hair into a state of further disarray. The breeze is nice against his heated skin, which has tanned significantly in the near three days he’s been out here. Even his hair has changed a bit, the ferocious exposure to the sun bleaching it and bringing out reds he remembers seeing more frequently as a child. He gets it from his mother, though the tanned, olive tone of his skin is all his dad. His family likes to joke that Teresa skipped the Jewish genes entirely, with how much she takes after their Irish mother, all auburn-red hair and hazel-green eyes, her skin always two shades paler than her brothers’ no matter how much sun she got. 

He didn’t realize how frequently his family intruded on his life until now, when they’re unable to contact him.  _ I almost miss the annoying bastards. _ Aunt May, at least, he can fully admit to missing. She likes to text him at least once a day, just to check up and see how he’s doing. Ever since Kaine moved to Houston and Teresa to DC, she’d been holding on to Peter and Ben a little tighter, like late-onset empty nest syndrome. They were the only two of the Parker siblings still living in New York, and he never felt more aware of it than when they had their weekend dinners and the table was only set for three.

A sharp pop shatters his oddly gloomy and nostalgic thoughts, and he flinches, slapping his hands over his ears belatedly. It jostles his glasses. Whirling around, he stumbles awkwardly on his feet as the boat loses momentum and the roaring motor goes silent. 

“Shit!” Hank storms from the helm room, muttering words in a language Peter doesn’t understand.

Bucky appears like a wraith from above, where he’d been fixing a loose rope. His face is stoic, but Peter sees the downturn of lips indicating the man’s displeasure. The vet hovers slightly behind Hank, gazing out across the water. 

Peer steps up beside him. “Tell me one of you can fix it.”

Shap blue eyes peer down at him, “Dunno. I sure can’t.”

“Awesome.” 

Hank smacks the motor with one hand, face set in a heavy scowl. He mutters something else in that language, too low for Peter to really get a reading on which one it is. “Gimme a sec, I’ll see if I can get her started again. If not, we’ll have to call the Coast Guard.”

The rising panic in Peter’s chest is immediately squashed.  _ Right, the coast guard. _ He’d almost forgotten that they had a completely operational radio. Everything would be fine. Sighing out his tension, Peter goes back over to the railing, seeing Edith talking with Joey in ASL, likely explaining the situation.  _ I really gotta learn that. _

Maybe he’ll ask Clint to teach him.  _ Or maybe I’ll learn it and  _ surprise _ Clint! _ He smiles to himself,  _ Yeah, sounds like a plan. _ The look on the other man’s face would definitely be worth it. 

“What’re you smilin’ about?” A voice heavy with a Brooklyn accent whispers, startling Peter out of his thoughts. 

Bucky hovers over his shoulder, clearly amused by Peter’s overreaction. Peter scowls and swats at the man’s arm without much heat. “God, put a bell on or something! Real people make noise when they move!”

The other man merely waits.

Peter purses his lips. “I was thinking about learning ASL when I get back. Joey and Edith kinda got me interested, and quite frankly I should have learned ages ago. I’ve got a friend who’s almost 80% deaf in both ears. You probably know him from the VA, too.”

“Barton.” Bucky says after a second of deliberation.

“Yeah. He lives down the street and we hang out in the same circle of friends so…” Peter shrugs, “I was thinking of the look on his face when I show off my skills.”

“Takes a bit t’ learn,” Bucky says, voice still low to keep their conversation as private as it can be on a small deck like this. “I know it. If you need tips.”

He says the last part haltingly, like he’s unsure about letting the words leave his lips.

Peter grins, a little less sharp than his usual snarky smirk, and tries not to make a fool of himself. “Haven’t gotten your fill of me yet?”

Bucky’s mouth quirks, “Give it some more time, I’ll learn.” He then tugs a phone from his pocket, and it looks small in Bucky’s scarred fingers. “Here.”

Dumbly, Peter takes it. “What.”

“Add your number.” The man says, patiently. He’s got that vaguely amused look back on his face. “So I don’t have to ask Flash about it.”

Peter puts his number in. “Cool,” he says, handing it back and hoping his hands aren’t sweating. At least this time he can blame it on the heat. “I’ll probably take you up on your offer. I haven’t the slightest clue on where to begin learning ASL.”

“I’m sure you could figure it out.” Bucky replies, turning to look back at the glittering ocean. The sun reflecting off the slightly choppy water forces his eyes into a squint. 

_ Then why offer to help? _ Peter thinks, but doesn’t ask. He’s afraid of the answer.

“Probably,” Is what comes out of his mouth instead. “But it  _ is _ easier to practice with another person. I taught myself Mandarin while learning to drive so I could hold conversation with the instructor, it was easier figuring out all the language quirks with someone who’s fluent.”

Bucky turns, surprise on his handsome features. It’s the most expressive Peter has ever seen the other man. “You taught yourself Mandarin? For how long?”

“Uh… four weeks?” Peter furrows his brow. “Just about.”

If anything, Bucky only appears more incredulous. “And you’re tellin’ me you’re fluent?”

Peter grins, sly and sweet. “ _ I sure am, Sergeant.” _ He says in perfectly articulated Mandarin. 

“Huh,” Is all the other man says in return, but Peter doesn’t miss the impressed gleam in silvery-blue eyes. It makes him preen a little, because Peter Parker has rarely ever been considered  _ impressive, _ genius intellect be damned. (Or maybe that’s the depression talking.)

“What about you? Know anything else aside from ASL?” Peter asks, content on being the talkative one in this weird, tentative relationship. “Since you’re a Marine you gotta be pretty smart, don’t even try t’ deny it. You don’t seem like a military meathead.”

Bucky considers this, silent. Peter tracks a bead of sweat slipping down the tendons of the man’s neck. Loose strands of dark hair stick to the back of it, the rest tied up high. There’s a sheen of red where the bare skin between his shirt and hairline is exposed, irritated skin on its way to being a sunburn. “Russian, Romanian, German, Spanish, French.” He lists off, then looks a little shifty under Peter’s disbelieving stare.

“Dude, that’s — that’s so many! That’s so cool!”

“Took me a lot longer than four weeks to learn each one,” The other man says, “Pretty sure you’re a lot smarter than me, Pete.”

“ _ You say such flattering things, Buck.” _ Peter says in near-perfect French. The odd vowels rolling off his tongue still feel a bit awkward to his native New York muscle memory. It’s generally easier than the Mandarin, however. He’s only better at that because it’s the most recent language he learned.

Bucky only huffs and mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like: “Of course.”

“I know Spanish as well, learned both that and French in high school. We were only supposed to pick one language, but…” he shrugs and sends the other man a winning smile, allowing himself to be smug. “I got bored.”

“You woulda been great in college, Pete.” Bucky finally says, and it’s said so sincerely that it makes Peter’s haughty veneer falter. He’s sure the Vet catches the wobble in his expression, but the other man kindly doesn’t comment on it.

This is a little too deep for Peter, who’s not exactly eager to share his feelings with even his closest friends, so he just shrugs again and shifts in place, “Maybe someday. Nothin’ I can do about it now.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything more on the subject. Instead, he turns to face Hank, who’s still working at the motor. “How’s it looking?”

“Not great,” Hank replies, forehead creased. “I’m not so sure I can fix it, certainly not any time soon or with so few tools.”

Captain Will sighs from the door of the helm, “Ah, jeez, she really was on ‘er last legs.”

Peter wonders if the Bugle will have to pay for a replacement engine. Jonah would certainly throw a fit if that was the case. 

Hank purses his lips and tosses one of his dreads back over his shoulder. “I’ll tinker with it for a little longer, just in case. I really don’t want to have t’ drag the Coast Guard all the way out here.”

“Oh, please,” Edith laughs, “They’re probably dying for some action, they’ll love it.” She turns to wiggle her eyebrows at Peter, “And they look good in those uniforms.”

He sends her a roguish grin. Not that he’d gone out of his way to hide it, but Edith had pinged on his bisexual nature sometime during day two, and had proceeded to spend plenty of time while they were out swimming talking about guys. Peter hadn’t minded, the steady stream of conversation certainly helped soothe his fidgety nature while he held very, very still for the perfect picture.

“I do love a man in uniform.” He goads right back, wondering if he’s imagining the side-eye he’s receiving from Bucky — but too scared to look and know for sure.  _ I wonder what  _ he _ looks like in uniform. Oof. I can only imagine. _

Like she can read his mind, Edith turns to Bucky, her freckled nose scrunching with the force of her mischievous grin. “Speakin’ of, you got any spicy pics of you in your dress blues, soldier boy?”

“No ma’am.” Bucky drawls, mouth pressed into a faint smirk. He doesn’t look at all regretful of the fact.

“For shame,” Edith sighs dramatically, “Guess my imagination will just have to do.”

Peter laughs, though he himself feels a little disappointed. “I suppose you’ll have to settle for those Coast Guard boys.”

“No complaints here, pretty boy!”

They fall into easy conversation, Bucky a silent participant and Joey chiming in with ASL that Edith seamlessly translates. Peter sees the rolling presence of dark clouds in the distance, and thinks nothing of it.

* * *

This turns out to be a mistake. 

The storm is moving faster than anticipated, shifting towards them with the swiftness of a snake. The temperature drops a few degrees, noticeably. Hank gives the engine a very mean look and Captain Will shakes his and moves to call the Coast Guard. 

“Engine’s toast,” he tells the radio. “What with the storm on the way, me and my friends here would love it if you picked us up.”

He doesn’t sound worried, doesn’t even look it. Peter can’t tell for sure if that’s an accurate assessment, seeing as he’s only known the man for a few short days. But his casual speech and loose drumming of fingers against the boat’s steering wheel gives Peter a sense of relief. It soothes his slowly building anxiety. A little.

The Coast Guard will take hours to get to their location. No one seems worried just yet, but Peter can’t help but eye the clouds, seeing them even closer than they were just thirty minutes ago. The looming gray mass is almost upon them, and Peter can see the sheen of rain that follows.

Winds have picked up, whipping his hair into his eyes. Peter clutches at his glasses instinctively, worried they’ll be knocked from his face and into the deep, dark sea below. There’s no getting them back if that happens, and that’s money out of Peter’s pocket he’d rather not have to spend. Wary, he steps away from the edge of the boat as the waves begin to dance higher with the movements of the wind, slapping against the boat and rocking it. Peter is useless up here, having no idea what to do in the event of a storm. Bucky and Hank are moving around the ship, tying everything down securely and rechecking the knots holding the sails shut. 

He heads below just as the rains hit. 

The slamming of rain drops sounds like hail against the metal of the ship, and the room jerks and shakes with the rapid swelling of waves. The bunks don’t move an inch, welded to the walls and floors. He grips the rails tight and sits, helpless to do anything else. Joey and Edith come down soon after, both of them soaked all the way through. Edith looks more serious than Peter has ever seen her, but she flashes him a quick smile. Her and Joey aren’t deckhands, so they have no place above deck, but they must have offered anyway. (Peter wishes he thought of that, even if he knows they’d probably laugh him down to the hull anyway.)

“Getting a bit nippy out there,” she says, squeezing water from her hair and uncaring at how it soaks into her bedsheets. 

“Looks like it.” His knuckles are white with how hard he’s grasping the rungs of the bunk. The harsh movements of the boat jerk the three of them around quite a bit, their suitcases sliding out from under the beds and across the floor.

“Shit,” he mutters, and moves to shove his case back under.

“Leave it,” Edith says, voice rising to be heard over the increase in noise outside. “Focus on not getting thrown like a rag doll!”

He grits his teeth and holds on. The turbulent movements and thudding of both the waves and rain makes him feel sick, motion sickness warring with the blooming fear in his chest. With a weak constitution like his, he wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up puking. He’d once gotten so dizzy on a tire swing he’d vomited all over himself and Ben, and his twin had  _ not _ been happy about that. This was like a million times worse, because there was no fear of death attached to the stupid tire at the park.  _ There was certainly a lot here, though. _

Peter hears a cracking noise that makes his teeth clack and his bones battle, shortly followed by the terrible crash of thunder directly above their heads. The ship tilts dangerously to one side and he yelps.

“Shit!” Edith exclaims, “The anchor!”

The door slams open with the force of the wind and rain. Waves crash over the deck and splash gallons of water down the stairs. Peter hisses at the sharp sting of wind against his skin, bombarded by the spray. It soaks his clothes and the sheets, and he ducks his face into his arm, gripping tight to the rails.

“Joey!” Peter hears Edith yell over the howling downpour, and he looks up to see that the other man has slipped and been tossed across the span of the bed. Edith holds tight to his arm. 

“Are you guys — ” he begins, only to cut off his words with a scream when the boat gives a sickening lurch and dips so viciously that everything goes sideways. His arms go taut, muscles straining. Peter scrambles to keep his grip, the metal under his hands slick with rain and sweat. He’s been swimming for days, his whole body one big ache — and he was already weak to begin with. Another thrash of the boat and he loses his grip, flying back and hitting the other end of the bed, his hip colliding painfully with the metal. He vaguely hears someone yell his name. 

The suitcases go flying, items that aren’t secured whirling around with every huge movement. Peter feels something batter his arm, his knee, his head. He can barely breathe, can barely open his eyes against the onslaught. The panic feels numbing, even if he wanted to move he can’t, can only let himself be thrown like a ragdoll, collecting bruises like stamps. His glasses are gone, knocked away, he can’t even remember when he’d lost them. 

Water surges into the room. Peter thinks he feels someone grab at his arm, but everything is so slippery that it doesn’t stick and they lose him — or he loses them. He’s grasping at anything, everything. Peter always assumed disaster situations were over in a moment. It’s a pretty popular trend in the media, the whole ‘it happened in an instant’ thing.  _ I blinked and it was over. It happened so fast! Before I knew it… _

Well. That’s not how it is. Not even a little. Time doesn’t seem real. He feels every second, every minute, every moment. It was happening, and it kept happening, and Peter is just praying for it to be over,  _ oh please, just be over.  _ It’s just constant thrashing and biting cold and wet, slicing water. Salt fills his mouth, bitter and pungent. Something else slams into his side and he thinks it might be a suitcase, but he can’t open his eyes to see.

His ankle catches on something and he doesn’t notice, not at first. It’s the shock of it all. For a moment it’s just pressure, then salt water surges against him and it  _ burns. _ He thinks he might be bleeding but he can’t tell, can’t pick apart the difference between crimson wetness spilling from him and the greedy hands of the ocean pressing against his battered skin. 

Hands grip him, tangled in his shirt. They don’t let go and Peter is hauled to his feet, his legs barely working underneath him. He catches a flash of freckles and green eyes —  _ Edith _ — before he has to squint to near blindness due to all the water flying around. The ocean pours down the steps, heavy and  _ pushing, _ but he keeps moving, keeps following Edith and Joey. Up the stairs. 

Maybe they’d rather die in the open rather than below, drowned in a box to drift away into the dark abyss of the sea’s depths. Peter can’t really decide which he prefers, his entire body is shaking with adrenaline and all the genius in the world can’t save him now, no matter how fast his mind blurs. Mother nature can not be bested by them, not on this tiny boat afloat in her most dangerous domain. 

Peter trips more often than not, his hands scrambling for purchase anywhere. It’s a ‘one step forward, two steps back’ kind of procession up the stairs and onto the deck. He thinks they’re even  _ less  _ safe out here, where they’ll surely be swept off the side of the boat at the next dip. He doesn’t have to fight for the next step, the boat tilts and spits him out, sending him flying up the last few steps in a tangle of limbs. Joey and Edith beside him and all manner of materials spilling out of the doors. He’s hit in the face by his duffel bag, which he grips instinctively. It’s not particularly helpful here, but there isn’t anything else to hold on to. 

The storm is so frightfully loud. It’s not even just the wind, or the pounding of the rain on both the ship and the ocean, it’s also the cracking of thunder and the screaming of waves rolling them around like dough. He’d been joking before, about dying. Yes, perhaps he’d been paranoid, but he’d never really anticipated dying at sea. That was the kind of thing that happened to other people.  _ This was the kind of thing that happened to other people. _

Except that wasn’t right, was it? After all, his whole life has been one instance of bad luck after the other, life kicking him where it hurts whenever he manages to grasp some semblance of stability and happiness. The Parker Luck had clung to him like a wraith, hovering over his shoulders and pushing him headfirst into danger. Into pain.

He slams violently into the side of the ship and feels something pop in his arm. Whatever noise he makes is lost to the howls of nature, and at first he’s not even convinced he’s screaming at all. He only knows for sure because his throat shakes with the sound, even if his ears do not catch it. The pain is hot, a deep contrast to the bitter, serpentine chill surrounding him. The strap of his duffel bag tangles around his uninjured arm.

Peter thinks of his parents. He thinks of his mother’s eyes, her kind smiles that Teresa inherited, and the way she used to cut the crusts off of their sandwiches. He thinks of his father’s heavy brow, the thick curls atop his head that Peter himself echoes, and the way the man’s eyes would light up behind thick-rimmed glasses whenever one of his kids would excitedly tell him something. These are the only memories he has left of them. And he holds them close to his chest.

He thinks of his Uncle, who Peter strives to be  _ better _ for everyday, even when rage simmers at his bones and he feels like maybe he’s not cut out to be the man his Uncle believed him to be. Ben Parker was a man who only ever saw the best in Peter, and Peter has spent every day of his life trying to make up for the fact that he never quite fit that image.

He thinks of his living family. His sister, his twin, his younger brother, his aunt. Even Jonah. Even his step-uncle. Even his dumb step-second-cousin who wasn’t even that bad, and Peter certainly liked him more than his father. (Jonah.) God, they really didn’t need this. They didn’t deserve another loss. Peter supposes he can only be happy that it’s him who’s dying, not one of them. 

(He’s always been the weakest, he knows. They can move on, they’re strong. Peter thinks, if he were in their shoes and lost one of them, that he’d finally break. That  _ good man _ mask would crack, and the coward he was beneath would be exposed for the world to see.)

Peter drags his fingers uselessly along the smooth metal and plastic of the boat, finding no reprieve from the grasping waves and open maw of the ocean. 

He falls, and is swallowed whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am too lazy to try and figure out languages in google translate, and they might not even be correct. so u get pretend, italic languages !!! also i wrote this in 2 days and am posting it immediately, sorry if it's a disaster, i just wanted to get to the storm :(((


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